


Pushing On

by ComicBookTattoo



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 23:32:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9571793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComicBookTattoo/pseuds/ComicBookTattoo
Summary: Ignis wakes up after Noct's battle with Leviathan.





	

Pushing On

 

The first time Ignis wakes from dreamless oblivion it's night. His mind is a thick fog through which he's vaguely aware of a sense of panic, of urgent and important answers to be demanded. The fog is overwhelming though, and even as he mumbles an unintelligable query to one of the soft voices he thinks he hears, he can feel his mind, sluggish and heavy, being drawn back down into sleep.

 

This time the sleep is not dreamless. Disconnected scenes assault him; fragmented moments filled with screams and flames, smoke and blood, and endless torrents of water swirling and ravaging, pulling him into the depths. Among it all he sees Noct, torn away in a watery vortex, fingers outstretched for help that, struggle as he might against the raging current, Ignis cannot provide. He screams his frustration, his failure in his life's duty to guide and protect, as Noct is ripped further from him, ever deeper into the abyss. As he screams the water surges into his throat, fills his lungs until there is no more room for air. He claws at his throat, at his chest, slashes at the torrent surrounding him in desperation.

 

And wakes once more, heart pounding and breath (sweet, sweet breath) ragged. It is night again, or still, he thinks, and silent this time. As his panic recedes he feels his mind sharper than before. The fog remains somewhat, but lighter now, and he recognises it as an analgesic stupor. A heavy analgesic, he thinks, as he can feel no pain to pin-point where he may be injured. Ignis' thoughts immediately turn to Noct- he can't remember exactly what has happened, but he is sure that Noct was in danger. Ensuring his king's safety must be his first concern.

 

The darkness hides his circumstances, though, and Ignis is not one to rush to action without caution and knowledge. He takes a moment to gently tense each muscle, trusting that whatever injury he may have sustained will either reveal itself or prove minor enough not to impede his movement. In doing so he establishes he is lying in a proper bed, with fine sheets and a soft pillow- combined with the analgesia it's unlikely he's a prisoner of the Empire, then. He sits slowly, although perhaps not quite slowly enough, judging by the sharp stab of pain through his skull. It is sudden and unexpected enough to make him cry out, and he falls back to the bed, his head spinning.

 

That noise seems to have brought attention, and he tenses at the rustling by his side.

 

“Iggy?”

 

Ignis lets out a relieved breath at Gladio's voice. He sounds groggy, just roused from sleep, but the gruff base is a welcome sound.

 

“Sleeping on the job, were we?” Ignis asks. His own voice is weak and raspy, but he is pleased to hear it hold steady.

 

Gladio snorts and replies, “You're not really in a position to talk, right now, Iggy.” The light tone covers a wariness, though, and Ignis is immediately on alert again.

 

“Noct?” Ignis asks. “Is he OK? Where is he?”

 

“Noct's fine,” says Gladio. “He's just sleeping off too much kingly magic. It took a lot to bring down Leviathan. He's in the next bed over, and before you ask, Prompto's fine too.”

 

Relief floods through Ignis, making his head spin anew. But for all he trusts Gladio he needs to see for himself. “Perhaps you would be so good as to give us a little light? I'll rest easier having seen Noct.”

 

He is met with silence, then a slow and shuddering breath. He feels Gladio's hand around his, warm and firm, and holding tightly, thumb stroking Ignis' palm. “Iggy....” Gladio begins. His voice is gruffer than usual, almost weak.

 

Ignis' thoughts race, connecting mannerisms, tones and words with a slowly uncoiling sense of dread.

 

“Iggy, we're in our room at the Leville” Gladio begins again, and Ignis can feel him steeling himself, forcing out the next words. “The curtains are all open. And it's the middle of the day.” He says it so gently, as if by tone alone he can somehow lessen the meaning. His hand tightens around Ignis'.

 

Ignis is frozen, his racing mind stopped in its tracks. His chest is suddenly hollow, a gaping chasm yearning to be filled, and he imagines it to be filled with razor edged shards, howls and screams. He has no air, no breath at all, nothing to pull it in or push it out, just pain, sharp and cruel twisting his insides.

 

His eyes are open, he's sure of it, but he sees not so much as a glimmer of light. He drops Gladio's hand and brings his own hands to his face, to his eyes, and sees nothing, not even the vaguest shadow as he waves his fingers. Tentatively he brushes his finger tips to his eyes, and yes, the lid of his right eye is definitely open. But not the left. And he finds where the pain should be, were it not for the analgesic. His left eyelid, and a large area around it, raw and torn. He concentrates hard on that eye, willing it to open. He can feel no movement. In near desperation he places his fingers there, trying to push the lid up. Even as Gladio grabs for his hand, warning, “Iggy, no!” Ignis finds this is more than the analgesic can compensate for, and he lets Gladio pull his hand away at the searing pain of it.

 

“You've been out for 3 days,” Gladio says. His voice has more strength to it now- a soldier reporting the facts, as painful as they may be. “Doc's been keeping you pretty doped up too, for the pain, but there's only so much of an edge it can take off.” Ignis hears Gladio shift at his side, then feels strong fingers stroking his hair. Gladio's other hand still grips Ignis', firm but gentle. “She said...” Ignis thinks he hears a swallow before Gladio continues determinedly, “your eyes.... The damage is too much. There's nothing they can do to help.”

 

Ignis feels panic creeping upon him. But panic is something Ignis has trained long and hard to eradicate from himself, and the first stirrings trigger the cold lucidity he has instilled in himself in its stead. Pulling his hand from Gladio's he more gently explores his own face with his fingers, in the all encompassing darkness. He forces his mind to catalogue each nick and wound as his fingers find it, focusing on the practical, on something he can actually physically control. A cut at his right eyebrow, the bridge of his nose, his lip. He lays this cool analysis over the growing terror and disbelief, pushes the panic down as best he can. There is no circumstance in which panic is a useful response, he admonishes himself. Ignis is nothing if not useful, and he will not succumb to this.

 

He forces a breath in, slow and deep, then back out, and in again, focusing on the sensation of the air passing his lips, his tongue, down his throat, feels the movement of his diaphragm to push that air back out.

 

Gladio has taken his hand again, and starts stroking to the rhythm of Ignis' shaky breathing. “Easy, Iggy, you got this. Breathe with me.” Ignis feels his hand settled against Gladio's chest, hears Gladio's loud exhale and inhale as he feels that chest rise and fall. It takes a few minutes for Ignis to regulate his breathing and regain control of himself, but eventually his hollow chest is mostly lungs and air again. He doesn't take his hand from Gladio's, though, or move it from the other man's chest. That warmth and solidity are grounding, and make it easier to focus on what matters. And what matters has never been him.

 

He finds his thoughts coming more clearly, and memories begin to return. Leviathan. They'd been almost finished the evacuation when Lady Lunafreya had begun the rite, and The Empire had attacked.

 

“Lady Lunafreya?” Ignis asks, voice gratifyingly steady. Well, steady enough.

 

Gladio hesitates in responding, the heavy intake of breath before he speaks answering Ignis's question. “She didn't make it,” Gladio says quietly.

 

Ignis acknowldges this with a small nod. As his memories of the event return he finds the news, though terrible, is no surprise. And he cannot allow himself the luxury of despair, neither for himself nor the Oracle.

 

“Noct received the Hydrean's favour?” Ignis asks.

 

“For what it's worth, yeah.”

 

“And the ring?”

 

“Yeah. Luna was able to pass it on to him, somehow.”

 

Another nod. That was good. That was the entire reason for coming here. “Very well. Then we have achieved our goal, despite whatever difficulties we may have experienced and losses we may have incurred.”

 

Gladio says nothing, but stills. Ignis has the distinct impression Gladio is staring at him, speechless, whether through lack of words or sheer emotional overload, he can't tell. The hand tightening on his own suggests the latter, and Ignis would bet the emotion in question is pure anger.

 

“Gladio...”

 

“We've 'achieved our goal' have we?” Gladio growls. “The Oracle is dead. Noct's been unconscious for 3 days. Half of Altissia is destroyed, and...”

 

“And I'm blind,” Ignis says, his voice deliberately cold, as much to force the words out as to ensure the desired effect on Gladio. “Yes, I had noticed that, thank you.” He pulls his hand from the comfort of Gladio's grasp, and draws himself up as best he can, while still abed. “These are indeed the facts of the situation, and no amount of wallowing in misery or anger will change them. Therefore we must accept them and adjust our plans accordingly. Our goal remains the retrieval of the Crystal, and our sworn duty remains to protect Noct and to guide him to retake his kingdom.” Ignis allows a moment for Gladio to absorb these cold hard truths, hoping that the reminder of their shared lifelong duty will serve to temper the other man's anger. He does not give voice to his doubts about how he can possibly fulfil his vow, about what use he can be to his king now. A tactician who cannot see the field, a political adviser who can no longer watch the machinations of court or the subtle expressions of petitioners and nobles. What subterfuges will go unnoticed now?  How can he plan and advise without his main source of information? 

 

When he continues, Ignis allows some of his hard won control to ease, for this is still Gladio he speaks to, and he cannot bear to build barriers between them. He can hear the tremor as he speaks, “I am blind.” He draws a ragged breath to help him push on past the lump threatening in his throat. “I hope that this will not be permanent, but it would be foolish to assume the best. I have spent my life in service to the Crown, and through the Crown, to Lucis. I will not break now, when Lucis' need is greatest. I _can't_ , Gladio. And I can't allow this to set us back from our goal.” He does not know how he can help his king, his country, right now, but he has duties still and _somehow_ he will perform them. Despite his words he feels almost ready to break. He wants nothing more in this moment than to crawl into Gladio's arms, bury his face in Gladio's chest and weep endlessly. But his life has trained him well to bury his own desires, and right now he thanks the Six for that. “We cannot let Lady Lunafreya's sacrifice be made meaningless. Our lives, you and I, and your father before you, rendered worthless, because we deem it too painful to push on. I will _not_ let our losses be for nought, Gladio.”

 

Despite Ignis' best efforts his voice is breaking by the end, but perhaps that only strengthens his plea. He feels the bed shift as Gladio sits at his side, and takes him in his arms, wrapping Ignis securely against his chest. Ignis lets himself take some confort in the strong arms around him, the rise and fall of the chest against which he now rests. He grips Gladio's vest tightly, for the first time aware of the texture of the fabric in his fingers. He feels the heat of the other man, his short beard scratching against Ignis' right temple. He feels Gladio's breath ghosting against his skin and then rough, dry lips against his hairline in a gentle kiss. Ignis moves his fingers to Gladio's jaw, feels the tension there as he explores the man's face. He concentrates on this- mapping the shape of Gladio's jaw, the texture of his beard, the curve of his lips and the surprising softness of his unblemished skin in contrast to the long scar. Ignis takes all this tactile information, files it with the mental picture of Gladio's grinning face, with twinkling amber eyes. He fears that image fading from him.

 

Gladio cradles him there, one hand against his back and the other buried in his hair, alternatively stroking and clinging, and says, “ _Nothing_ you do will ever be worthless, Iggy.” Ignis can hear the tears in Gladio's voice, but there's determination there too, and that's enough, for now.

 

“We push on, Gladio. We have to.”

 

“We push on,” Gladio agreed.

 

And with that promise, Ignis finally lets the tears come.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is kind of a catharsis for me, really. I HURT after chapter 9, and the impact on Ignis himself was never even slightly explored in the game. He's a stoic and dutiful person, of course, but he's still human, and there's no way he just woke up blind and thought, "Oh, right. Never mind...."
> 
> My 1st piece of writing in MANY a long year, but that just speaks to how much I love Ignis, I think- haven't cared so much about a character or their story for years.


End file.
